


four

by Splashattack



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Episode: e174 Impact (Rusty Quill Gaming), Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, Not A Fix-It, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Spoilers for Episode: e174 Impact (Rusty Quill Gaming), because it's my fic and I say so, no beta we die like, resurrection fails, y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27180655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splashattack/pseuds/Splashattack
Summary: There are four graves, unmarked but between them containing the world, and Hamid can't leave them like this when the people buried had so much life.in which Hamid remembers he still has the flowers he bought Aziza in Prague.now available as a podfic read by the author
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	four

**Author's Note:**

> so a few days ago I pitched the idea in the rqo server that hamid could decorate the graves with aziza's flowers and got smacked with a newspaper in the reactions which I'm pretty sure means I'm legally required to write a fic
> 
> podfic linked at the bottom of the fic
> 
> cw for canon-typical death (never thought that would apply to rqg), grief, kinda spiraling-y thoughts

There are four bodies laid by the fire, too still and too pale and too familiar and too dead.

Hamid does not look at them. He stares unblinkingly at the flames, but he cannot feel their heat over the icy numbness within him.

He can control what he sees, yes, but not what he thinks, and his thoughts are a beast harder to contain than even the auroral magic that left them here. He wonders how they felt, falling: if Sassraa and Meerk had wished for Skraak's wings; if Wilde had considered that he could stop his descent if not for the cuffs binding him; if Carter had worried for himself or others. He wonders why they all landed with their eyes open. He wonders how Sohra felt, promising help only to be met with three bodies too crushed to repair and the fourth having been in an anti-magic field for so long that there was nothing to be done. He wonders how Sassraa and Meerk and Wilde and Carter would feel, now, seeing their broken bodies splayed next to the broken-spirited survivors.

He can't leave them this way.

* * *

There are three graves, carved deep into the frozen earth, and there is a fourth, shallow and being excavated by a dwarf who snarls if anyone tries to help.

The sun treks across the sky, and the bodies—that's all they are, now, empty husks—rapidly stiffen in the frost, and Hamid cannot stop thinking, _what-ifs_ dancing gleefully through his mind. _What if_ they had gone around the wild magic. _What if_ they had seeked another way to reverse the body changes. _What if_ they had taken a different route to Svalbard, _what if_ they had investigated the seed before Rome, _what if what if what if_ and Hamid notices his hands have gone to claws and still he cannot control the tide of regrets.

* * *

There are four fresh mounds of dirt, dusted with fine snow. Those who did not disappear into the trees or wreckage when the graves were filled stand in a loose circle around them, sharing memories, saying goodbyes.

Hamid does not listen to what is being said. He is not ready, cannot fathom his life without Sassraa's tinkering or Meerk's drums or Wilde's wordplay or Carter's pranks. He will never see them again, these people so dear, so close to his heart. He has only felt this _empty_ once before, at Aziza's funeral, because at least there had been hope with Sasha and Grizzop.

Aziza. She had been brilliant before she died: bright and enchanting and whimsical. Hamid had been so proud. He'd been sure they would deal with Kafka discretely, that the opera would run uninterrupted. He'd bought Aziza flowers for after her performance, and he had never given them to her.

He digs through his possessions in a frenzy, because he _must_ still have them, and Sassraa and Meerk and Wilde and Carter deserve more than these unmarked piles. Aziza's casket had been buried in offerings, and they had nothing but ice to adorn their graves. She would understand.

By some miracle—the temporal shift in Rome, or that horrid magical aura—the bouquet had managed to avoid the greedy grasp of decay. He holds the blooms to his face and kisses the delicate petals.

* * *

There are four friends, taken too soon, swallowed by the earth. They will remain there long after the airship takes off once more.

In two years, or perhaps ten, a lost soul will stumble into the clearing. They will not know what unspeakable tragedy took place here, but they will see four bright pops of color through the snow, and they will feel a handful of indescribable presences—four, they will later determine—gently guiding them back home: one final gift from four who saved the world.

* * *

podfic available [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1E9pnRd7rRRpQREiLRVS_qTnxQe5rGjlv/view?usp=drivesdk), read and edited by the author

podfic length: 4:29

**Author's Note:**

> ok go read a fluffy fic now everyone 💚


End file.
